


My hand is set

by themis



Category: Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alex is the moral compass of this story jsyk, Alternate Universe, Coercion, F/M, The Dancing Dove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themis/pseuds/themis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To his mistress going to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My hand is set

  
_To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;  
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be._  
\-- John Donne, "To His Mistress Going to Bed"

Roger leaves the ball, trailing Alex in his wake. He has stayed late and made Alex stay with him. Alex hates being unable to sleep, so naturally Roger loves depriving him of it.

"Will you come in?" Roger asks, stopping at her door.

"No," Alex says coldly. "You know I have no taste for that."

"She would not say no," Roger says, enjoying the way Alex does not bother hiding his disgust. Alex's weakness always shows through in odd ways. He looks from Alex to the door and back. "I shall see you tomorrow, then."

"Yes," Alex says, and leaves.

Roger pauses before entering. Even he has to be careful with her. Desperate women are dangerous to anyone, and he thinks that she would have been dangerous no matter the circumstances. He opens the door without knocking.

She is halfway to bed. Her hair has been taken down and her clothes and jewelry removed. She sits still at her table, removing the paint. He sees her stiffen as he enters the room.

He closes the door behind him and says nothing. He leans against the doorframe, thinking she looks like a deer startled in the forest. Why that should be, he has no idea. Surely she should be accustomed to the situation by now.

"Do you need me, tonight?" she asks abruptly.

"I always need you," he says.

She looks about to say something, but when her lips move it is only so that her tongue may slip out to wet them. She looks down again, picks up the fabric square that she let fall earlier, and reapplies it to her face. He can see that she has begun to bite her lip. It is not a pleasant habit; he had thought her too well made for it.

"You should not be so nervous, Alanna," Roger says.

Anger, quick and sharp and fitting, ripples across her face until it pools brightly in her eyes. "Do you need me?" she asks again.

"Just as you are," says Roger, and adjusts against the doorframe. He sees her shiver suddenly. Her breath already has begun to come faster; that is pleasant.

She says nothing. Neither of them says a thing. But her hands move the fabric more slowly over her face. Roger does not mind. He enjoys contemplating her, though she is not beautiful. She never has been beautiful and she is almost not charming, would not be but for him.

The light on her table catches the gold bracelet on her wrist as she moves the clothe across her face. That, she has not taken off. That, she cannot take off. He wonders if she still notices his bracelet.

He hopes very much that she does.

Roger can see Alanna's face in the mirror. It is quite clearly scrubbed clear of the paint, but still she plays at removing it.

He has no patience for this. Roger knows her, he can see the way her breast rises, the way her face has flushed, how dilated her pupils have become. That she should think to coquette him is…

Too much.

"Alanna," he growls, and she stands hurriedly.

"You need me," she murmurs. "But for what?"

Roger extends a hand. "Come, my dear, and tell me what you have learned."

Alanna takes it, allowing him to draw her closer against him. She starts to tell him the details she picked up from his cousin at the ball, the facts dropped to impress her. Alanna's information is always better than Delia's. It is a pity, Roger thinks, that Alanna should be so reluctant to gather it.

He fingers the locks of her hair absently while she talks. It is a surprisingly weak, coppery color. Beautiful, yes, but not a strong red. Not at all the color the poet's talk of. He rubs her jaw, feels her pulse accelerate beneath his fingers. He kisses her, lets her drop the pretense of the information. That can wait.

"Roger - " she says, in a strangled voice.

"My little lioness," he says. She rubs against him, then, like the cat he has named her. Roger smiles. She is warm against him in his arms, like a cat, and small enough to be one. He runs his hands along the short length of her torso, feeling the heat that radiates through her thin chemise and slip, hearing her mumble incoherent things.

Alanna gasps when he lifts her leg, pushes up the skirt to run his hand against the soft skin of her thigh. She clutches him. Her nails dig into the fabric of his shirt and nearly pierce it.

She has never been difficult to read. Roger knows what she wants and is almost ready to give it to her. He angles her against him. Her legs clench around him and Roger runs his hands beneath her chemise, caressing her smooth, rounded skin.

Which is when she draws blood.

He throws her away from him and clutches at his neck. They are both angry, now. It is hard to tell which is more filled with rage.

"Have you claws, lioness?" Roger says. He keeps his voice cold, but that will not fool her. Not unless she is supremely stupid.

"I am not your plaything," Alanna spits.

"No?" says Roger. He strides toward her and grasps her wrist. She is hot, but the bracelet has stayed quite cold. "I think that you are indeed mine, to do with as I like." He can see his drying blood under her finger nails.

"No," says Alanna. It is futile, though. She knows it.

"Oh, my dear lady," says Roger, "how very wrong you are." He releases her hand and looks her up and down. She looks perfectly disheveled. "Compose yourself and go to bed, little lioness. I shall wish to hear all your new information in the morning."

Her face flames and she opens her mouth, but Roger leaves before she can get the last word in.

 


End file.
